I think I broke something

Sunday, we had friends over after church. I wasn't expecting that they'd come. We'd missed phone calls, and hadn't touched base, so I was in no way prepared. However, when we got to church and they asked what they could bring... I didn't panic.

It's not that the house was clean (it wasn't).

It's not that we had something ready to serve (we didn't).

It's not anything I can really figure out, other than that I must've broken a switch somewhere. The one that flips on (it's not a dimmer switch - it's completely binary) when company is coming and endows me with the power to push through and figure out a way to make it at least look like we could possibly maybe sort of (with a little effort, you know, because this is supposed to be "how we always live") have a Really Magazine Quality Home.

But it broke, and I was able to tell my friend honestly and upfront, "Well, you might as well know now, you will never see my home truly clean. I love you, and you're welcome any time, but this is as good as it gets."

She laughed and promised to return the favor one day. Bless her. I knew she was a good 'un.

And then, when scheduling James' chiropractic consultation, the office offers only two times: 9AM, and 1PM. I always want to take the nine o'clock appointment. That's so easy, in theory. We'd be up and at it early, out the door, and home again before Second Breakfast, and oh what a fine day would still stretch before us. But. That's not how it plays out. (Ever.) And so, I laughed and told her that while nine sounds delightful, one would be far more realistic.

And she laughed. It was a good-natured laugh, but still... I suspect she laughs quite a bit as we trundle in and out, sometimes with shoes (sometimes not - the littles still shed clothing in the car - if it weren't for car seat straps, we might arrive mostly naked from time to time), sometimes all brushed and coifed (again, sometimes not - I'm not sure what's in carseat fabric, but it can turn the cutest little hairdo into a Kramer-esque conflagration in the 40-mile drive). It used to be that queries of "how are you today *smile*" were met with an exhausted chuckle and a weakly muttered, "we're here". Now, meh, we're here and it's great and, um, yeah, I'm not even going to pretend that little one had shoes, anymore.

That switch seems to have controlled a number of exhausting functions in my brain: company clean panic switch; we're-really-more-organized-than-it-looks justification loop; oh-my-but-HOW-did-we-leave-the-piano-book-here-and-not-realize-it-all-week-*glares at guilty suspect* query. What's worse, it also seems to have triggered the Stressful Exoneration Speeches. I hate those. The kids hate those. All they do is make us all feel haggard and worn out. Why do we even come equipped with that feature?

But now, it just doesn't work. And you know what? I'm glad it doesn't.

My home will not be clean enough for the Queen, but that doesn't matter because I don't have a Queen and if a foreign Queen does come to visit, her security staff can either pass or fail the house on inspection. I don't care. The cookies will be good, at least. But the rest of you are more than welcome, any time, any day.

My children will not ever look upon exiting the vehicle the way the did upon exiting the house. I know this. If you've had children, you know this. If you don't get it, well, that's okay, they aren't your children, and I don't have to explain it anymore.

No, we are not more organized than we appear. It's actually probably worse than it seems. Just go with it. We do. And we're happier for it. (In a "Death By Irony" moment, we're also on time significantly more often now that the switch has broken! Love it!)

And yes, I feel like a complete dork for taking over a decade to find that switch and snap it off, entirely. But now it's done, and it feels great!

Kiss those babies!
~Dy